The Steady Anchor

Shoes squeaked against the polished gym floor. Volleyballs smacked against hands and bounced off the court. Late afternoon sunlight streamed through the high windows, throwing long gold rectangles across the court where Inarizaki’s boys’ volleyball team was grinding through drills. In the middle of the organized chaos, Kita Shinsuke moved with his usual quiet precision—clean tosses, perfect footwork. He was the steady anchor, the captain who never raised his voice but somehow made everyone listen just by being reliable.

“Oi, Kita-san.” Ginjima jogged past, a grin splitting his face as he grabbed a towel off the bench. “You look like you’re thinkin’ too hard. Everything alright?”

Kita straightened, brushing a stray strand of dark hair off his forehead. “Just focusing. We’ve got that practice match against Seijoh next week. Want to make sure our formations are solid.”

Aran joined them, tossing a water bottle from hand to hand. “Always the responsible one, huh? Don’t you ever think about anything besides volleyball?”

“I think about plenty,” Kita said evenly.

“Like what?” Ginjima’s grin widened. “Like the fact that you’ve never had a girlfriend? Or boyfriend, for that matter? C’mon, Kita-san, you’re a senior. Don’t you want a little romance in your life?”

Aran laughed, low and teasing. “Maybe he’s saving himself for volleyball. Or maybe he’s just terrible in bed and nobody wants to stick around.”

The words were meant as a joke—locker-room ribbing, the kind teammates throw around without a second thought. But Kita felt his ears burn. He prided himself on composure, on staying unflappable. But this—this line of teasing hit something raw. He’d never been the type to chase relationships. Discipline, routine, honor—that was what mattered. Romance always seemed like a distraction, something other people went for but he could live without. Hearing his friends laugh at his lack of experience, and worse, speculate about his performance in bed, lit a sharp, defensive spark.

“I have a lover,” Kita said.

Flat. No hesitation.

Ginjima and Aran stopped laughing. They stared at him, disbelief written all over their faces.

“Wait, what?” Ginjima dropped his towel. “You? You’re dating someone?”

“Who?” Aran stepped closer. “We know everyone on this team. Everyone we hang out with. No way you’ve been keeping a secret this big.”

“I’m not obligated to tell you everything,” Kita said, voice steady but his heart starting to race. He’d never lied like this before. Not about something so personal. But pride is a hell of a motivator, and the sting of their teasing pushed him over a line he didn’t know he had.

“Prove it,” Ginjima challenged, arms folded. “Bring them to practice. Show us. Otherwise, we’re not buyin’ it.”

Aran nodded. “Yeah, Kita-san. If you’ve got a lover, let us see. Otherwise you’re just talk.”

Kita’s mind scrambled. He had no one. No girlfriend, no boyfriend, not even a casual date. He’d backed himself into a corner, and his usually clear-headed reasoning had abandoned him. He scanned the gym, desperate for an escape, for something—anything—to salvage his dignity.

His eyes landed on the water station in the corner near the bleachers. Atsumu Miya stood there, leaning against the wall, drinking from a steel bottle. Practice jersey, sleeves pushed up to his shoulders, golden-brown hair tousled from exertion. His sharp eyes were half-lidded, watching the court with a lazy sort of focus. He’d been listening, Kita realized. Heard everything.

Atsumu’s gaze flickered to meet Kita’s. For a second, neither of them moved. Then Atsumu’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. He raised his bottle in a subtle salute.

Kita made a decision.

He walked toward Atsumu, footsteps echoing in the sudden hush of the gym. The other players had stopped their drills, drawn by the unusual tension. Atsumu didn’t flinch as Kita approached—just lowered his bottle and waited.

Kita stopped right in front of him. Up close, Atsumu smelled like sweat and fabric softener, a faint hint of mint from his gum. His eyes were bright, expectant.

“Play along,” Kita whispered, low enough that only Atsumu could hear. “Please.”

Atsumu’s grin spread wider. He didn’t ask questions. Instead, he reached up and draped an arm over Kita’s shoulders, pulling him close. His body was warm and solid. Kita tensed instinctively before forcing himself to relax.

“Sweetheart,” Atsumu said, voice carrying across the gym. Loud enough for everyone to hear, laced with affection. “Did those two finally find out about us?”

The word ‘sweetheart’ hit Kita like a shock of cold water. No one had ever called him that, not even in jest. But before he could react, Atsumu leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Then another. And another, trailing down the side of his jaw. Soft, deliberate. When Atsumu pulled back, Kita saw the faint smudge of matte lipstick on his own cheek—Atsumu must’ve been wearing it from some earlier magazine shoot.

“Oh, you’ve got some on me,” Kita managed, voice steadier than he felt.

“Good,” Atsumu said, still smiling. He lifted Kita’s hand and guided it to the small of his back, pushing it lower until Kita’s fingers brushed against the hem of his shorts. Through the fabric, Kita felt something unexpected: lace. Atsumu was wearing lace underwear beneath his practice shorts.

“Feel that?” Atsumu murmured, breath warm against Kita’s ear. “That’s for you, darlin’. Now squeeze.”

Kita’s hand moved before his brain caught up, fingers pressing into the firm curve of Atsumu’s ass through the lace. Atsumu let out a soft, exaggerated moan, tilting his head back. The sound was theatrical, designed to carry, and it did the job. Aran and Ginjima’s jaws dropped. A few other players let out startled laughs.

“Told ya,” Atsumu said, turning to face the team with a proud smirk. “Kita-san’s been mine for a while now. Just surprised he kept it secret this long.”

The gym erupted in chatter. Some teammates clapped Kita on the back, congratulating him. Others exchanged bewildered looks. Aran and Ginjima stood frozen, clearly unsure how to react.

Kita’s face burned. His hand was still resting on Atsumu’s back. He pulled it away quickly. But Atsumu kept his arm draped around him, anchoring him in place.

“Practice is over, right?” Atsumu announced, ignoring the commotion. “I’m gonna go clean up. You comin’, sweetheart?”

Kita nodded numbly and let himself be led out of the gym. The moment they were alone in the hallway, he pulled away, heart pounding.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice rough. “I shouldn’t have dragged you into that.”

Atsumu shrugged, demeanor shifting from playful to something softer. “Don’t worry about it. Those guys were bein’ jerks. I hate when people tease you like that.”

“You didn’t have to go that far.”

“Maybe I wanted to.” Atsumu’s eyes met his, and there was a vulnerability there Kita hadn’t expected. “You looked like you needed help. I gave it.”

Kita’s guilt thickened. Because he knew—had known for years—that Atsumu had a crush on him. It started when they were fifteen, first year at Inarizaki. Atsumu had never been subtle about his admiration, always finding excuses to be near Kita, to impress him. Kita had noticed but never acted on it. Thought it was a passing phase. Thought ignoring it would make it go away.

But Atsumu had just kissed him. Touched him. Pretended to be his lover in front of the whole team. And he’d done it without hesitation, with nothing to gain except the chance to be close to Kita for a few minutes.

“Thank you,” Kita said, the words tasting foreign. He wasn’t good at gratitude, not for things like this.

“Anytime.” Atsumu’s grin returned, but softer now, almost shy. “If you need to keep up the act, I’m available. I’m a pretty good actor, y’know.”

Kita didn’t know what to say. So he said nothing. Just watched Atsumu walk away, footsteps fading down the corridor.

---

The rumors spread faster than a spike in a rally. By next morning, the whole school seemed to know that Kita Shinsuke and Atsumu Miya were a couple. Whispers followed them through hallways, envious glances cast their way. Kita endured it with stoic calm, but inside his stomach churned with guilt and something he refused to name.

Atsumu, on the other hand, embraced the charade with unrestrained enthusiasm. He started greeting Kita with a kiss on the cheek before practice. Brought him water bottles. Sat next to him during breaks, shoulders brushing. Called Kita “baby” and “honey” in front of the team, each endearment delivered with such natural sweetness that even Aran and Ginjima started believing the lie.

“You two are disgustin’ly cute,” Ginjima said one afternoon, watching Atsumu feed Kita a bite of his onigiri. “Get a room.”

Kita chewed carefully, avoiding eye contact. Atsumu laughed, bright and unguarded. “Jealousy ain’t a good look on you, Hitoshi.”

But not everyone was charmed. Osamu Miya watched his twin with narrowed eyes, his usual poker face hardening every time Atsumu draped an arm around Kita. He said nothing at first, but his silence spoke volumes.

One evening, after practice, Osamu cornered Kita by the equipment shed.

“What’re you doin’ with my brother?” he asked, voice low and flat.

Kita stopped. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t play dumb.” Osamu stepped closer, posture rigid. “I’ve known Atsumu my whole life. I can tell when he’s pretendin’. He’s got a crush on you, and you’re usin’ him to save face.”

Kita’s guilt flared, sharp and hot. “It’s not—that’s not what I intended.”

“But that’s what happened, isn’t it?” Osamu’s eyes bore into him. “You made him your shield. And he’s so damn pathetic over you that he’ll take whatever scraps you give him.”

“I’m not trying to hurt him.”

“Then stop this.” Osamu’s hands were clenched at his sides. “End it before he gets hurt worse.”

Kita opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. Because Osamu was right. He’d been using Atsumu. Had let the charade continue because it was easier than admitting he lied. And Atsumu—brilliant, selfless Atsumu—had been playing along, hoping that maybe, just maybe, the fake would become real.

“I’ll think about it,” Kita said, voice hollow.

Osamu stared at him for a long moment, then turned and walked away.

---

But ending it proved harder than Kita anticipated. Every time he resolved to call off the act, Atsumu would do something—bring him a drink, smile at him from across the gym, touch his hand during a movie night—that made Kita’s resolve crumble.

They spent more and more time together. Sometimes as a couple in front of others, but increasingly as friends when they were alone. Atsumu told Kita about his dreams of becoming the best setter in Japan. Kita listened, offered quiet encouragement. Kita talked about his grandfather’s farm, the pressure of being captain, his fear of not being enough. Atsumu listened with an intensity that made Kita feel seen in a way he never had before.

The line between act and reality blurred. Kita found himself looking forward to Atsumu’s presence. Started noticing the way Atsumu’s eyes crinkled when he laughed, the way his fingers moved with unerring precision when he set a ball, the way he bit his lip when concentrating. The feelings Kita had kept at bay for years began to surface, warm and insistent.

He still felt guilty. Still knew he’d started this for the wrong reasons. But he also knew he no longer wanted to stop.

---

The climax came after a practice match against a neighboring school. The team had won, and the mood was celebratory. Most of the players had gone to get dinner, but Kita and Atsumu lingered in the empty gym, packing up equipment.

The overhead lights cast soft shadows on the court. Atsumu was humming a pop song, folding nets with quick, efficient movements. He looked at ease, content.

Kita set down a ball and walked over to him.

“Atsumu.”

Atsumu looked up, humming stopping. “Yeah?”

“I need to tell you something.”

Atsumu’s smile faltered, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. He straightened, letting the net fall loose. “What’s wrong?”

Kita took a breath. His heart was pounding, but his voice came out steady. “I’ve been feeling guilty ever since that day. I used you. I lied to save my pride, and I dragged you into it. That wasn’t fair.”

Atsumu’s expression softened. “I know.”

“You knew?”

“Of course.” Atsumu stepped closer. “You think I didn’t notice you were desperate? I saw you lookin’ at me, and I knew you needed help. I didn’t mind.”

“But that’s not the point,” Kita said, frustration creeping into his voice. “You deserved better than to be used as a prop for my ego.”

Atsumu was quiet for a moment. Then he reached out and took Kita’s hand. His fingers were warm, calloused from years of gripping volleyballs.

“You know I’ve liked you since we were fifteen,” Atsumu said, voice low. “I’ve never stopped. When you asked me to play along, I didn’t hesitate because I wanted to be close to you. Even if it was pretend. Even if it was just for a little while.”

Kita’s throat tightened. “Atsumu…”

“And I’m hopin’ that maybe you’ve started to feel somethin’ too.” Atsumu’s gaze was intense, vulnerable. “Because I can’t keep pretendin’ if it’s only me who’s in love.”

The confession hung in the air between them. Kita’s mind raced, but his heart was already decided. He squeezed Atsumu’s hand.

“I have felt something,” Kita said, voice cracking. “For a while now. I was too scared to admit it because I thought I didn’t deserve you after the way I started this. But I do feel it. I want this to be real.”

Atsumu’s eyes widened, hope illuminating his face. “You mean it?”

“I mean it.” Kita stepped closer, their bodies inches apart. “I’m sorry it took me so long to say it.”

Atsumu let out a shaky laugh. “I don’t care about sorry. I care about you.”

He leaned in, and Kita met him halfway. The kiss was soft, tentative at first, then deeper, filled with all the unspoken words of the past weeks. Atsumu’s lips were chapped from the gym air, but Kita didn’t mind. He tasted like salt and victory and something undefinably Atsumu.

When they broke apart, they were both breathing hard. Atsumu’s eyes were bright, his smile wide.

“So we’re really doin’ this?” he asked.

Kita nodded. “We’re really doing this.”

---

The next morning, Osamu found them eating breakfast together in the school cafeteria, sitting close, sharing a basket of fries. Atsumu was laughing at something Kita said, and Kita’s reserved smile had softened into something genuine, affectionate.

Osamu dropped his tray on the table and sat across from them. His gaze was unwavering, fixed on Kita.

“So you finally decided to stop messin’ around?” he asked, tone flat.

Kita met his eyes. “I wasn’t messing around before. But I was wrong to start it the way I did. I’ve apologized to Atsumu, and I intend to make it right. I care about him. I’m not going to hurt him.”

Osamu’s jaw tightened. He looked at Atsumu, who met his twin’s glare with calm defiance.

“He’s not usin’ me, Samu,” Atsumu said. “I know what I’m doin’. I’ve wanted this for years. And he wants it too.”

Osamu was silent for a long moment. Then he picked up a fry and bit into it.

“I’ll be watchin’ you,” he said to Kita. “If you make him cry, I’ll spike a ball at your head.”

Kita nodded, a flicker of relief passing through him. “Understood.”

Aran, who’d been listening from a nearby table, let out a low whistle. “So it’s official, huh? Kita-san actually landed the Miya setter. Inarizaki’s power couple.”

Ginjima grinned. “I always knew Kita-san had it in him.”

Kita didn’t respond. He just turned to Atsumu, who was grinning at him with unabashed joy. Under the table, their hands found each other, fingers interlacing.

---

Weeks passed. The team accepted the couple with good-natured teasing and genuine happiness. Osamu’s wariness thawed slowly, especially after he saw Kita stay up late to help Atsumu practice his serves, or when he noticed the way Kita’s hand always found the small of Atsumu’s back in crowded hallways.

One afternoon, during a quiet break in practice, Atsumu was at the net, setting balls for spikers. Kita stood at the sideline, a towel around his neck, watching.

Atsumu caught his gaze and winked.

Kita’s lips tilted into a gentle smile. He didn’t look away.

The gym was full of sound—echoing voices, pounding footsteps, the thwack of leather against wood. But in that moment, it felt like they were the only two people in the world.

And Kita knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that this was real. That Atsumu was real. And that he was finally, irrevocably, in love.